Remembering
by Anton M
Summary: The waves carry a barely alive girl to the seashore. Questions arise. She doesn't know. She doesn't know who she is, why she has an oddly-shaped scar and why a 'wanted' person is after her. Why? Stupid question. She doesn't know. Mystery. All Human.
1. Found

**Summary: **A wounded girl is found from the seashore, but there's no sign of a storm. The Cullen family, living in New York City, decides to let her live under their roof until her memory returns. Dealing with amnesia, an indication of Bella's confusing history already starts to reveal itself, visible on her body. Cryptic messages and an insane wanted are not only a perplexing reality, but hold an important connection to Bella's past as well. It's up to Bella to discover that barely anything is as it seems.

Mystery. All Human. Edward x Bella. Canon Pairings. Bella's Perspective and Third Person Subjective. Rated T for occasional coarse language and suggestive themes. Rating is subject to change.

**Warning:** This story contains unparalleled insanity, a twisted plot and a general sense of utter stupidity. It includes the dumbest plot you will ever read. It's filled with suspense, plot twists and soon it will become clear to you that this story is pure escapism. However, this is not a supernatural story. It has nothing to do with vampires.

** A/N:** Jordin, I hope you have internet in Heaven. I remember how eager you were to find out the end of this story, and if God is up there with you, please make sure he'd buy you a router for WiFi. This one's for you, Pickle. You were the bravest girl I knew. I miss you so much.

* * *

><p><strong>Remembering<strong>  
><strong>Chapter 1: Found<strong>

I felt numb and weightless. A forward motion tossed my limbs above my body before letting them hover there. I sensed repetitiveness in my involuntary movements. I couldn't breathe. After unclenching my quivering yaw, I only managed to swallow water. A soft surface slid across my face before my feet were pushed against something stiff and cold.

I sensed coldness, but couldn't ignore the sharp blistering pain coming from my right arm. An unknown force pushed me further before another one dragged me back. I tried to lift my head, but it was impossible to compel my neck to carry out the simple procedure. I made an attempt to recall the place where I was, but my mind didn't cooperate with me. It was getting harder to breathe. With an effort I managed to raise my eyelids.

I was on a seashore, but it was difficult to see anything. The waves continued to shove me nearer to dry land. My feet touched a small cliff.

The place was dim and foggy. With every breath I took my lungs filled with water. I couldn't lift my head to get my mouth out of the water as every cell in my body screamed for oxygen. The need for air grew stronger, but I did not possess the strength to lift my head. I lost consciousness.

.-*-.-*-.

There were dashes of pain in my thorax. Something held my head in an awkward position and my lungs were repeatedly being filled with air. I jerked, leaned sideways, and as coughed, I felt strong arms around me. I couldn't focus; instead, I kept inhaling desperate uneven breaths that were followed by shuddering coughs. The strong taste of salt made my mouth dry. I couldn't find the strength to move, I couldn't control the shivers that had started to cover my body and I couldn't get rid of the pain in my right arm or head. Long wet hair tangled uncomfortably against my neck and waist. I heard voices but failed to understand them. They seemed to be talking far away from me, but observing the frames in the darkness proved that a man was standing right next to me.

"_Can you hear me?"_

I couldn't bring myself to open my mouth.

"_In case you can, try not to move your head or arms,"_ another voice said. As if I could. The pain in my arm increased immensely as the man attempted to move me. He untwisted the hair from my neck, covered me with a large jacket and lifted me.

"_It's lucky that we found her,"_ a voice muttered.

"_Tell me about it,"_ a huskier one answered.

I could faintly feel pressure against my right hand, but there seemed to be something seriously wrong with the way it was connected to my shoulder. It hurt. I grimaced and bit back tears as the pain intensified. As I said nothing, they didn't comment.

"_We need to wrap her arm into something clean. It looks like a serious open bone fracture."_ I wanted to vomit because of the intense pain. _"Could you put her down so I can put something around her arm?"_

"_Of course. But where? And where are we supposed to find a clean piece of cloth?"_ I was starting to see the men clearer. There were two of them. The man holding me was big, but muscular, and before offering a smile he appeared quite intimidating. _"Don't worry, we'll get you out of here."_

He turned to talk to the other one. _"Did you find a place clean enough? There's sand all over the place. We can't put her on one of the small cliffs, can we?"_

_"Do it. It's cold, but not sandy. We can't risk the sand coming to contact with the wound."_

The giant of a man put me onto a hard surface. _"My jacket's under you so you wouldn't freeze your butt off." _I wanted to thank him, but again, nothing came out. I eyed the taller man; he had lighter hair and a few wrinkles surrounded his blue eyes. Neither of them seemed hostile.

"_Let's see how bad this is."_

The blonde one pulled out a Stockman's penknife. Before I knew it, I attempted to push the man away by shoving my left hand into his face. I wriggled away from him. I was terrified. Startled, the man stood up and raised a hand to his freshly bleeding eyebrow. He locked eyes with the other one before making sure my eyes were on him as he placed the knife on the other side of the rock. He crouched.

"_It's alright,"_ he assured. _"There's no reason to be scared. I'm a doctor. I want to help you. I just need to cut your sleeve open so I could see your fracture."_ He offered me a kind smile and fell silent. He made no attempt to touch me as he held my gaze. His face blurred and I took a few shallow, ragged breaths. What motive would he have to harm me? He wouldn't have saved my life just to cut me in half. I grasped the cliff beside me, but discovered no rocks to use for self-defense should it become necessary. I didn't like being unprepared and vulnerable. Having convinced myself of his good intentions, I nodded. He told me to look away.

Strong pain told me there was something seriously wrong with my arm. As I didn't want to faint, I focused my attention on a small silver ring on my left hand. It surrounded my little finger and had a small startling blue pebble in the middle. I observed the shape and size of my distraction, but after the tall man reached the most painful part of my shoulder, I gasped. My body slackened after I smelled blood, and it made me feel nauseous and frail. The man near my arm pulled off his sweatshirt and started to walk toward the sea.

"_Emmett, watch her!"_

"_Where are you going?"_

"_I need to make my shirt as clean as I can so I can put it on her wound."_ By the time he returned, I felt so dizzy and faint that my eyelids closed. Panting and fighting nausea, I wanted to vomit.

Hasty footsteps came closer.

"_What's wrong?"_

"_She's worse than I thought. We need to hurry."_ The older man approached us. _"The salt is going to be bitter on the wound, but it is going to clean it enough for us to head back. It's going to hurt."_

He gently wrapped the cloth around my arm, but when he reached the place where my bone was broken, I flinched. I would've been willing to cut my hand off to get rid of the pain. I paled. He apologized as he continued to wrap the cloth around my arm. My vision blurred.

"_I'm sorry. We need to keep your arm still attached to you once we manage to get you out of here."_

I blacked out.


	2. Amnesia

**Remembering**  
><strong>Chapter 2: Amnesia<strong>

Abstruse voices blurred together and the lighting changed as well as the intensity of my pain. I couldn't differentiate the noises from each other. Someone shouted. Every part of my body seemed to be poked, stretched and thrashed with a burning hot object. I would've vomited if I had the strength. For a second, I was sure I stared at someone's clear blue eyes, but it vanished before I could focus. I must have gained and lost consciousness several times before I lost energy and stopped attempting to comprehend the reason for me to be wherever I was.

I faded out.

.-*-.-*-.

…_beep…_

…_beep…_

…_beep…_

I opened my eyes, but immediately squinted and waited for my eyes to adjust to the halogen light. I couldn't move my head.

The empty room I was in had a distinguished scent of disinfectant. A chair and a table lay next to my bed, and a few old children's scribbles covered the yellow wall. An ambulance siren loudened before dying out and leaving behind the buzz of passing cars. It was dark outside, but other than the light in my room, a faint light from the corridor reflected on the white floor. Regular beeping emitted from a heart rate monitor and an IV delivered fluids and medications the vein in my left arm. My right one was in a white plaster cast. I stretched out my left one, twisting and sensing the needle under my skin. It didn't bother me.

Obviously, I had been taken to a hospital, but not a single paper illustrated the bedside table, so I couldn't take a peek and read the name of the hospital. My head, shoulder and body ached all over, and as I felt an uncomfortable rope-like sensation behind my back, with an effort, I bent my back. A sharp pain cut through my shoulder, but I managed to tear out the cause for my discomfort with my left hand.

It was my hair in a plait.

I nearly laughed, but my dry throat prevented the action; instead, I let out an awkward-sounding cough. I attempted to focus my eyes on the skewed words on the drawings, but it felt as if wrongly prescribed glasses hindered my ability to see. I blinked a few times, but in vain. I rubbed my eyes with the same result, and realised how completely exhausted I felt from being awake just a few minutes.

A ginger-haired nurse entered my room without acknowledging my presence before I cleared my throat. She nearly jumped out of her skin, and held her hand above her heart as she hyperventilated.

"You're awake!"

I hummed a response not completely comprehensible even to myself. My throat made a rasping sound as I attempted again. "Hi." After a few mutterings, I motioned at my throat, croaking, "Water?"

The nurse blinked, stared, and rushed to the bathroom before returning with a cup of water. My hand shook a little, but I offered the woman a smile as I leaned the cup on my cast. I eagerly gulped down the food-canal freezing liquid and gasped for breath after I'd finished. The nurse with a tilted name-tag 'Jeanne Ramwood' finally stopped acting as if my waking had to have been included in one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World and rediscovered her vocal chords.

"But he told us you weren't supposed to wake up until maybe a few weeks! How long have you been awake? Do you need anything? Wait, no, I gotta go find Dr. Cullen, I dunno if he's at the hospital at this hour of the night, but I'll do my best to reach him… This is amazing, I cannot believe…"

She didn't appear to be expecting an answer, so I simply watched her ramble until she hurried off to the corridor. She left the door open, and I observed the occasional wheeling, rolling and walking by-passers. It was quiet, and none of them paid any attention to my wandering eyes. Despite my exhaustion my attempts to take a nap failed.

The tall man who entered my ward an hour or so later (if there was a clock in my room, they hid it well) was holding what I assumed to be my chart, wearing a generic white coat and a gentle smile. There was no stethoscope. He shut the door and slid the screeching chair next to my bed as his smile grew. "I'm not sure if you remember me."

"Carlisle Cullen," I said like an obedient student. "_Doctor_ Carlisle Cullen."

His eyebrows shot up before he lowered his eyes to see the direction of my gaze. "I see you didn't harm your ability to read."

"Nice to meet you, too." I smiled, ignoring my tiredness while hoping for answers. "So where am I, exactly?"

"Hospital room," replied the doctor, amused.

"Specifically."

"Bellevue Hospital, 462 First Avenue, New York City, New York, United States of America," explained Dr. Cullen, still slightly entertained. "Is that specific enough?"

"Thank you."

I remembered the scene at the cliffs, but I couldn't figure out what happened _before_ that. Did I live in New York?

The doctor set down the file, smiled, and wiped his glasses as he asked, "And you are?"

"I —" I started. "I am…" I stopped rubbing the ends of my hair, frowned and blinked at the doctor who calmly eyed my embarrassment. I dreaded my brain telling me what my gut-feeling already knew, and a pain shot through my head as I took a few deep, deliberate breaths. I rubbed my eyes. "I mean, my name is…" I huffed. "My name is…"

The man leaned closer. "It's okay. Don't panic. Everything's fine. Breathe."

I took a few ragged breaths as my heart-rate quickened, and continued to stare at the doctor in horror. "I can't… I—I don't know." I swallowed and felt tightness in my throat. "I can't remember."

"There's no reason to panic," assured the doctor quietly. "Breathe."

I did. But how could I not know? It's just a name. Just a few letters combined in a way that formed the word I was called by, how was that so difficult? Apparently, it was.

"But how can I —? I'll need a health insurance to pay for this, a place to go, a family —"

"Breathe," repeated the doctor, sliding his chair closer. "Your priority right now should be to get well. Do you need anything?"

"I—I… I mean…" I stuttered, at a loss for words as my unnerving situation started to sink in. I shut my eyes, attempting to remember something — _anything_ — but all I received was a headache that seemed to be getting progressively worse by the second.

_997, 991, 947, 953, 967, 971…_ I thought and kept my eyes closed as I realised I could name all the states of the United States of America, I knew how to tie a shoelace and why the sky was blue. But for the life in me, I could not recall my own name. I focused in the feeling of love a family should provide, but I only fed my own headache. If I had friends and a family, my brain refused to tell me.

"Are you alright?"

I opened my eyes to a concerned pair of blue eyes, and nodded.

"Would you like some water, food, painkillers or…?"

I managed a weak smile. "I, uh, can't I have them all?"

The man chuckled, standing up to get me some water. He filled a needle and injected a transparent liquid into the peripheral venous catheter at the back of my left hand. I felt a little uneasy trusting him with a substance I knew nothing about, but then reminded myself I was looking at the man who had saved my life. If it weren't for him, I would no longer exist. My heart seemed to expand in my chest, and I suddenly felt a little emotional.

"Thank you," I murmured, stretching my lips into a smile. "So much."

"No need, it's my job."

"That's not what I meant." I tilted my head at my aching, bruised body (or attempted to, anyway, because of my cervical collar). "For saving my life. I don't know how I'll ever be able to repay you."

He smiled as he sat down again. "How about you get better? That'll be a start."

"Before I spend the rest of my life in slavery?"

He let out a laugh, shaking his head. "Before we figure out who you are. So don't worry about it. Anyone would've done the same."

I highly doubted that, but smiled instead, changing the subject as I lifted my right hand and tilted my head toward it. "Morphine?"

"Yes. We thought of Fentanyl, but with your body mass, we didn't want to risk it."

"Knocking me out with opiums already?"

"Because that's what doctors are for."

"No doubt."

He chuckled before eyeing my chart, and pursing his lips. "I actually need to talk to you about a few things, but you must be tired. Tomorrow?"

"I'm not tired at all." I hid a yawn, and forced my eyes more open than they'd been before.

"Clearly." He smiled and stood up. "Don't worry about anything right now, okay? Get some rest."

I piped up, "Doctor?"

He turned around. "Carlisle."

"Okay, Carlisle," I repeated. "Before you go, I just want to confirm… do I have amnesia?"

"Probably."

"Why?"

"We don't know yet. I'll elaborate tomorrow, get some rest now."

I would have liked to say I had the willpower to prove to myself I was not tired, but I was out the moment he had shut the door.

.-*-.-*-.

The next time I opened my eyes, sunbeams cast into my room and a balding janitor was washing the floor, humming _Raindrops Keep Fallin' on My Head_ and occasionally staring out of the window. He sent me a holey grin as he noticed I had woken up.

"Beautiful day, aye?"

"Very," I smiled, sensing a buzzing headache that was much less intense than the one yesterday. "Would you happen to know what time it is?"

He checked the watch on his wrist. "Almost two in the afternoon."

"Thanks."

He leaned on his mop, tilting his head toward the flowery tray on my bedside table. A lonely bowl filled with white goo sat in the middle.

"You might wanna eat that before they take it away."

I placed it in my lap. "Are they trying to starve me?"

"No, but you might wanna take it easy if you haven't eaten for a while."

It tasted like the best and worst food I'd ever had, probably because it was the only thing I could remember having.

I spent the day testing my memory and speaking to the nurses who stepped into my room from time to time. Our conversations didn't step outside of the boundaries of frivolous matters, and I counted the people who started the conversation by mentioning the weather. I didn't mind, though; they kept my mind off the uncertainty of my future and I was grateful for that. At about six PM, I asked the same ginger-haired nurse to let me stand in front of the bathroom mirror. I hadn't done so thus far and felt weak and a little awkward, but leaned on the sink, closer to the reflection, and eyed myself.

My hair, still in a braid, reached my midsection and was the same dark shade of brown as my eyes. I had a pointy chin, high cheekbones and dark circles around my eyes. A few transparent veins on my temples magnified my paleness. There was nothing gasp-worthy, but overall, I had little to complain about. I gripped the sink tighter as a wave of dizziness hit me. It wasn't a rare occurrence, but it still annoyed me to feel like a ninety year old man.

The nurse held onto my shoulder as she helped me to my bed. "Better?"

"Thank you."

Jeanne smiled. "That's what I'm here for. How do you feel?"

"Like someone drained me from spinal fluids, played hockey with my muscles and stole my blood." I offered her a smile, hyperventilating slightly from the exercise. "Never better."

"It'll be alright." Jeanne placed a blanket on me. "Doctor Cullen will be here shortly. He'll tell you more about the policeman and the social worker coming here."

I blinked rapidly. My voice cracked. "A—a Police Officer? A social worker? Why?"

"It's alright. They just wanna talk to you."

"About what? It's not like I'm in any condition to talk about the adventures of my life while sipping tea and discussing politics."

But I already knew. How did you get here? Are you lying? Were you abused? If not, do you think it's possible you were? Do you think there's anyone having a grudge against you? Maybe you hit your head. Maybe you have a psychological trauma. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe it wasn't. Maybe your folks are out there looking for you.

Maybe.

But I didn't know.

I didn't know.

A few hours later, Doctor Carlisle Cullen stepped into my ward. He was casually clad in jeans and a black jacket, and nothing about his appearance suggested that he worked here.

"Getting in?"

"Had a night shift. Slept through the whole day." He shut the door, slid the chair closer to me, and placed my chart in the bedside table. "So, how're we doing today?"

"I don't know about you, but I'm quite alright, given the circumstances." I offered him a smile. "How're you?"

"Good, good," he reciprocated. "Still no memories?"

"None whatsoever. You could probably pull out a gun, but I doubt even the possibility of being killed would make me remember. Or that's what it feels like. I don't know. Do you have a gun?"

He frowned. "I do not. Are you sure you're alright?"

"Fit as a fiddle," I reply. "So what do you think happened to me?"

"It's hard to tell," started Carlisle, rubbing the place where two reddish marks suggested he usually wore glasses. "Amnesia can be caused by various different things, but from the way we found you, I can't actually say I'd be surprised by your lack of memory. In most cases, memory comes back, but in some rare occasions the memories won't return. It could be caused by damage to the brain, the use of certain drugs or even drinking too much alcohol; if the problem is psychological, your brain may want to shield off a traumatic event in your past. At the moment, it's almost impossible to know which one of these is the cause of yours. It might even not be permanent, just the shock of what happened to you."

"And now we only need to know what happened to me."

"Yes."

"Is there any way of speeding up the process of remembering?"

"I've heard getting you into the environment you're familiar with and surrounding you with people you knew might speed it up a little, but if there's nothing you remember, it's impossible to do that."

"So, what do I do?" I asked with a voice that reflected my vulnerability. I cleared my throat. "What _should_ I do?"

"We've contacted a social worker, and she should be here in a few days," said Carlisle. "No need for that face, it's our obligation to report cases such as yours. We've also contacted the Police Department and informed them about your condition."

"My amnesia?"

"And the bodily harm that's been done to you." He sighed. "We cannot say for sure, but it seems likely that you were held captive and abused."

"The scars on my legs."

"Exactly. Whoever it was, or whoever they were, it's clear they didn't expect you to survive. I might be completely wrong, but by the scars on your legs, one could assume you were tied up, maybe with a weight tied to it so you'd sink. You probably fought back, or tried to. You could've harmed your hand falling, or fighting, or it was done to manipulate you into doing something. Either way, I believe it's most likely it was intentional, and with the clear intention of hurting you beyond repair."

"Whoopie. So someone probably wanted to kill me. I feel important."

"Are you sure you're alright?"

"Never better! So who do you think would want to kill me?"

"It's a far stretch with no tangible evidence, but not at all an unlikely speculation," he said, continuing to frown at my attempts at humor. "You need to understand how vulnerable you are, and how unique your situation is. The Police promised to search through all the missing person reports during the last six months, but it's likely that once your face gets plastered on billboards with the story of a girl who cannot recall a single thing about her life, you'll be beating the press away with a stick. It's an extraordinary situation you're in, and you need to be careful. Unless, of course, you _do_ want your story to be all over the place."

"I don't," I replied, getting serious for once. "I mean, obviously, I want to find my family, but I don't want to become the next hot topic for newspapers. If there's someone out there who expects me to be dead, doesn't that put me in danger if I suddenly appear on billboards asking who I am?"

"I agree."

I fiddled with the ends of my braid as I asked, "So what do you suggest I do?"

"Speak to the social worker, and then speak to the NYPD. We'll go from there."

"But what if I—" I cleared my throat. "What if there's no one who knows who I am?"

"Don't worry," assured Carlisle. "There has to be someone."

"But what if there isn't? Do I just walk away from here with no job, no place to go, no-one I'd know? Where do I go?"

"We'll figure something out. No-one will let you become a homeless. You shouldn't concern yourself over this before we know anything certain."

"But the hospital isn't obliged to care what happens to me after I leave."

"But _I_ am," retorted Carlisle. "Do you really think my conscious would allow me to let anything happen to you?"

"But—but you already saved my life, why are you helping me?"

"If anyone in the world needs help right now, it's you. A reason as good as any."

"Thank you."

"Not worth mentioning," said Carlisle, giving a glance at the clock. "Is there anything else you want to know?"

"Well, I'm just interested. If we don't know what my name is, what did you write on my file?"

He stretched out his arm and let me see the chart.

"Jane Doe?"

"It's the typical placeholder name for legal action."

"Why not Maria Rossi or Erika Mustermann or Joe Bloggs?"

"Because we're in America. Your English suggests that you're a native-speaker, but even if you aren't, it's much simpler for everyone to use Jane for now. If that doesn't suit for you, I'm sure you can change it."

"No, it's not a problem," I said. "A name as good as any, I guess."

"The good news is, we ran a blood test and other than your memories, nothing seems to be out of order. You should be able to function without help within a few weeks." He offered me a smile which I mirrored.

"Doctor?"

"Carlisle."

"Carlisle," I repeated. "Would you mind telling me what date it is?"

"Monday, February the sixteenth. You were in a coma for nearly three weeks." He stood up. "It's quite a miracle you're alive, to be honest. Not many of us believed you would wake up."

"Wasn't my time to go, I guess." I shrugged. "Do you still converse with the other guy who saved me?"

"You mean my son Emmett?"

I felt my face grow warm. "Sorry. Yes, him. Could you send him my gratitude? I'd send him so much more, but gratitude is all I have right now."

"Of course," replied Carlisle, grinning. It made the wrinkles around his eyes grow more defined, and for a moment, I saw the age in his eyes. "But you can do it in person in a few days. I told him about your condition and he's determined to drop by after his lectures on Friday."

"Great! Not that he should feel obliged to come, but I'd love to say my thanks in person."

"I thought so." Carlisle grinned. "But I need to go now, the nurses will check on you every once in a while. Do you need anything?"

"Could you smuggle in some real food? A banana? A sandwich? Something I can sink my teeth into."

A smile in his eyes, he answered, "I can't make any promises, but I'll see what I can do."

.-*-.-*-.

On a dreary Wednesday morning, I managed to visit the bathroom all by myself, and I did a little (inward) happy dance at my progress. My body still ached, I still got confused and dizzy, and I still needed morphine to get me through the day with minimum amount of pain, but my little steps toward healing made me determined to get well. Even when that meant I had to leave and start thinking of how to handle my situation. I felt scared, to be honest. I hoped it wasn't too apparent, but after the first night, I could not sleep through the whole night. Nightly hospital, dim-lighted and occasionally busy (but mostly not) as it was, made me feel lonely.

Carlisle's speculations hadn't really surprised me, but I had spent two days contemplating on my condition, and came to the same conclusion that there was no way my situation was just an accident. It couldn't have been. But who would try to kill me and why? Why couldn't they have just shot a bullet through my head and be done with it? Why bother throwing me off a boat or whatever without making sure I was dead first?

I couldn't fully understand my own reaction, either. I felt more concerned over the fact that I had nowhere to go, and there was no-one I knew; than by the potential of a killer. It felt too surreal to be true. I couldn't figure out what motivation anyone would have to kill me, or if I just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. Both were possible, but the latter felt more likely.

In the evening, a uniformed (with an empty gun socket) middle-aged man knocked on the open door and stepped into my ward without waiting for a reply. A tall woman in a suit followed him, and they both took a seat. The short-haired brunette removed her glasses, wiped them with the edge of her beige costume-suit, and put them on. Neither of them said a word.

Welcome to the zoo, today's special feature is a girl who doesn't know who she is! Form a line, and quickly, or your ticket will go to waste!

I felt slightly disheartened by their silence, so out of spite for their greet-less entering, I remained silent. After a good thirty seconds of my careful ignoring and their even more cautious staring, the police-officer broke the silence.

"I'm Raymond Harper, New York Police Department Officer in Manhattan."

"I'm a social worker for the NYC Social Services, and my name is Susan Fisher," said the dark-haired woman in a scratchy voice.

I offered them a wave with my left hand, and muttered, "Nice to meet you both. I'm someone with a name, but I guess you can call me Jane for now."

I managed to get a hesitant smile out of the policeman. "Should we get straight to business?"

"Be my guest." I offered the police officer a warmer smile.

"How can we be certain you're not just another kid who escaped from home and pretends not to know where that is? Such a deep case of amnesia is extremely rare."

"You can't. But unless you're suggesting that it's possible to pretend to be in a coma for three weeks, faking injuries such as this one —" I pulled the blanket toward me so that it uncovered my ankles. "— and that I faked finding myself from a seashore, then you can probably trust your own judgement."

"So we can't be sure," claimed the man calmly. "You could be aware of where you entire family is and not just want to go to them."

"Hypothetically—let's say I did know who they are or where they reside. Don't you think my injuries are enough to suggest sending me back there would not be the best of ideas? I'm not saying they're the cause of this, but we can't rule it out."

"What if you created the injuries yourself?" Ms. Fisher asked.

"If I did, I wouldn't know, and wouldn't that be all the more reason to find out what happened to me?"

"So you insist you have amnesia?"

No, I get a kick out of trying to drown myself and banging my head against a wall to lose all my memories.

I rubbed the ends of my hair, sighing. "Put me under a lie detector if you want. I'm not obliged to make you believe me. You either do or you don't. Maybe you can see a motive in my alleged faking, and if you do, I wouldn't mind hearing about it, but the fact is, I do not know what happened before I woke up on the seashore. Nothing. Not a single memory. Every time I try to remember, I get a blinding headache."

I kept my eyes on his grey ones until he finally admitted, "I believe you."

"Thank you."

"Can you describe how exactly you came to? Why was Dr. Carlisle Cullen there?"

"I'm afraid you should talk to him about that. His perception of the day they found me wasn't suffering under the aftermath of a possible brain injury."

The man shuffled, took some notes and nodded. "I most certainly will."

Our conversation continued for at least two hours, and the indifferent-looking social worker rarely said anything. I answered questions without actually answering them (because, really, what did I have to say?), inquired about their search for reported missing persons—with a number of unconfirmed results—and tried to get a general idea of how I should proceed after getting out of the hospital. According to them, I had to go to the Police Station to see a number of people hoping that the description of me coincided with their faith that I was the one they were looking for.

And, apparently, thirteen families or people thought I could be their sister, child or a girlfriend. Was there a swarm of brown-haired girls fleeing from their loved ones? I couldn't decide whether to be scared or hopeful. What if one of them did claim to know me? How could I be sure it wasn't someone craving to take advantage of my lack of memory? Whether I found someone who claimed to know me or who really did know me, I could neither confirm nor deny their claim. Because I didn't know.

I didn't know.

"But what if," I started. "What if there's no-one? What do I do then?"

The Policeman glanced at the quiet social worker. She, too, seemed to find a piece of sympathetic cell in her as she straightened her back and offered me a hint of a smile. But before I could make out her words, a sharp, blistering pain shot through my head, and I panted slightly in my attempt to understand her. I wanted to scream.

What was she saying? Something about becoming homeless? It couldn't be. She wouldn't be that cruel. I took a deep breath before I asked her to repeat herself.

"The obvious choice would be a homeless shelter."

"But I—I don't think I'm homeless," I reasoned, still holding onto my head with my working arm. "I just don't know _where_ my home is."

"It's the best choice until we get details on your situation," Officer Harris said, eyeing me carefully. "Are you alright? You seem awfully pale."

You mean paler than usually? Gee, I must've evaporated.

As my headaches appeared and vanished without consulting me, I ignored his concern. "And by 'until we get details,' do you mean until a right family—_my_ family—does come around, or until my memory returns? If so, we can wait until I die. It might not return at all. And I might not have anyone."

"Let's wait until the situation settles, you get better, come and see the people who want to confirm that you are or are not the girl they're looking for, and we'll go from there, okay? Be optimistic. There has to be someone."

Easy for him to say. He didn't nearly bleed to death, lose his memories, break an arm, have a concussion and headaches so painful as to be on the verge of fainting, and lay in a hospital ward like a vegetable with a cervical collar without so much as a health insurance.

"Alright," I said.

"Alright?" repeated the Police Officer, clearly surprised by my lack of resistance. I shrugged, and after a moment of silence, they got up. "Alright then," finished Raymond Harris. "We'll contact your doctor soon to hear about your progress and agree on a time you could pay us a visit. Your case is being investigated. As soon as you remember anything at all, we expect you to cooperate."

I nodded, managing a faint smile as I watched them go and wished to sleep off my current headache.

.-*-.-*-.

By the time Friday rolled around, I had gotten used to the hospital routine, and as my health improved, I no longer had the luxury of being able to sleep in the mornings. I also met my physiotherapist, a short, well-built woman with eagle-eyes and a sadistic tendency to make me repeat every exercise I managed to perform successfully; for those I failed mostly included using both hands or neck, neither of which I could actually move. As I was being rolled back into my ward, I felt drained beyond belief. The blood in my shoulder pulsated in an odd place left above my heart. I was sweaty, exhausted and almost made a promise to never agree to this sort of torture again.

Needless to add, I was forced to break that almost-promise the next day.

On Saturday, in the late afternoon, a _familiar_—and the fact that I could use this word made me giddy with excitement—face peeked into my yellow ward. The burly man, even more defined by muscles than I could recall, frowned to himself before his eyes landed on me and he let his mouth stretch into a dimply grin. He took off the ear-pads of his I-pod, slid the uncomfortable chair next to my bed and sat down. I smiled.

"I was told you have memory problems, so I guess you probably don't remember me," he said amiably. "My father and I helped you a few weeks back. You were pretty out of it."

"Hi, Emmett." My grin widened. "Nice to see you again."

Momentarily taken aback, he leaned away from my bed. "But you—how do you…?"

"Magic," I replied, chuckling. "I'm from Hogwarts."

He let out a laugh and shook his head. "You remember me, huh? Or dad told you."

"Both. I only have problems with what happened before you two saved me," I said. "And by 'problems' I mean I'm not quite sure who I am, where I come from or what's up with my injuries. It's been a real adventure."

"I can only imagine."

"Thanks for saving me and coming to visit me, by the way." I smiled. "I'm glad you did."

"Without me, you'd only know one person on this planet," said Emmett. "So now you know two."

I laughed. "Indeed."

"But how're you feeling?"

"All things considered? I'm alive. That's a place to start, at least." I smiled through my perpetual headache and realized I didn't know anything about the guy. "Are you enrolled in a university? What're you studying?"

"NYU, Economics, I'm a few months away from my Bachelor's."

"Sounds great!"

"Would sound even greater if I didn't have to spend most of my time writing my thesis."

"Isn't that sort of the point?"

"True," he agreed. "But the knowledge doesn't make it more tolerable."

I laughed. "So that makes you… twenty one? Twenty two?"

"Twenty two," answered Emmett, grinning. "So how old do you think you are?"

"Not a day over ninety, that's for sure." I played with the edges of my braid. "What's your guess?"

He chuckled while appraising my face, and I blushed slightly.

"You look young, like, I'd say… less than twenty."

"Like I said, not a day over ninety."

He shook his head while letting out a hearty laugh. "We're gonna have to keep you around if you don't find your family yet. I've always wanted a personal entertainer."

"Is that a job offer I hear?"

"Without the money part, yes."

"A slave then?"

The both of us laughed, but after a minute of chuckles, his smile dimmed and he grew more serious. "What're you gonna do once you get out?"

"I guess I…" I cringed. "I don't quite know yet. If there's no-one then I guess I'll—I'll have to settle for a homeless shelter for now."

"You've thought about that?"

"I try not to, but if there's absolutely no-one then I have no other choice."

"You have us."

I chuckled a cheerless laugh. "Yeah, and you've known me for what? A full hour?"

"That doesn't mean we'll let you go and live on the streets. I mean, you have literally nobody, how creepy is that?"

"Not creepier than being dead, that's for sure."

"You have an odd sense of humor, anyone tell you that?"

"You just did."

Our laugh wasn't quite as joyous as the burden of my condition weighed us down, but during the next hour, we discussed minor matters and I felt better because he wasn't scared of going with my black humor. I could tell he didn't like the idea of me going to a homeless shelter (not that I was ecstatic, either), but we no longer touched the subject. He felt like a cheerful brother I never had. (Or did I? I might have.)

But I didn't know.

I didn't really want him to leave, so as he stood up and prepared to do just that, I asked, "Will I be seeing you again?" The prospect of spending too much time with four walls and a ceiling didn't particularly appeal to me.

Emmett shook his head and grinned. "A girl who doesn't know who she is? Are you kidding me? You're like real life Jason Bourne. I wouldn't miss it for the world."

I let out a laugh. "If only it turned out I'd been a super spy."

"Just promise that you'll share once you do remember." Emmett smiled, pulling out his I-pod. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."


	3. NYPD

**Remembering**  
><strong>Chapter 3: NYPD<br>**

After Saturday, my conversations shrunk back to the beloved topic of weather and the amount of pain I happened to be in. I studiously avoided the subject of my discharge, and not because I couldn't face my future, but because I didn't feel ready, not yet. But would I ever be ready? I'd gone over the way I was found endless times. I attempted to catch a glimpse or a picture of my past, a random memory, a recollection of anything; emotion, smell, taste — anything at all — but all in vain. Or, more precisely, all in the name of a headache that had yet to show it was capable of leaving. Sharp or dull, nagging or dizzying or nauseating, it was ever-present. Sometimes less intense, yes, but still there.

By the next Thursday, the twenty sixth of February, I could tell my careful avoidance of the subject of my future had started to make Carlisle nervous. He'd managed to come and see me almost every day, a kind gesture I immensely appreciated and looked forward to, but as my health improved (and as I was given more than a bowlful of white goo), I knew from the way he acted that he wanted to approach the subject of my future. And today, I was determined to face it head on and not parry the conversation. He was too kind a person to force me into it, and I understood I'd been postponing the inevitable. I had to go; whether it was today, tomorrow or two weeks from now made no difference. Eventually, I had to go.

But where? I had no idea.

I'd gotten to know him a little, too, because (probably) in an attempt to get my mind off things, he spoke to me about his family. He was fifty three years old, had a younger wife called Esme whom he spoke highly about, two sons and a daughter, all around my age (not a day over ninety). I listened. Carlisle seemed like good man, and I felt as if he treated me like one of his own kids. If he didn't mind, I hoped I could keep in contact with him after I left and went... wherever I had to go.

Emmett also stopped by every once in a while and made sure I kept up my spirits. He teased me and, every time he visited, made sure to ask if I already remembered my super-spy past. I, of course, did not. Sadly. But joking around took the edge off my headaches, and I was grateful for that.

"Do you think you're ready?"

I offered Carlisle a faint smile.

"I'm sorry?"

"A little visit to the NYPD," he said, searching my face. "Do you think you might be ready? I've told them you still can't remember anything, but your health has improved and I believe you're ready to see if anyone recognizes you."

I slid my fingers through the end of my braid. "I think I am. As ready as I'll ever be."

"That's wonderful to hear." He smiled. "You're in no condition to wander alone, so I've made arrangements to be able to come with you. I'll give Officer Harper a call and set up an appointment for tomorrow afternoon."

"So soon?"

"They've wanted to arrange a meeting since the day before yesterday."

"Oh. Um, Carlisle, I'm sorry I haven't been too willing to discuss my future. I know that, eventually, I have to. I'm just—it's just so unsure. I can't even…"

Carlisle slid his chair closer, placed a firm hand on my right shoulder and locked eyes with me. "We'll figure it out."

"But what if—what if someone does claim to know me? How do I know if the person really knew me, or if it's one of the people who wanted to hurt me, or if—I just can't be sure, can I?"

"Don't worry, no-one will force you to do anything against your will. If anyone does recognize you, but you don't feel comfortable going with them, you don't have to. But for your own sake, we hope someone does know who you are."

"I do, too. It's just—"

"Difficult," he finished, getting up. He offered me a gentle smile. "I understand."

.-*-.-*-.

The barely-noticeable layer of snow squished and melted under our footsteps. It was raining. I slid my hands into the pockets of a large jacket Carlisle had brought from his home. Apparently, it belonged to his younger son. As I hid my nose into the collar away from the cold, I smelled soap. I smiled into it and looked down at my jean-clad legs. The jeans, apparently, belonged to the girl they'd taken in. Alice, I believe. The hospital wasn't obliged to clothe me (my clothes were ruined beyond repair), so Carlisle borrowed clothes from his children and kindly offered them for me to wear. The thought of his kindness lifted my mood, and in a burst of spontaneity, I leaped over a mud puddle.

The effort knocked the wind out of me, and I took a moment to catch my breath. I rubbed my face and took a deep breath.

"Are you okay?" asked Carlisle as he stopped in front of me. "Take it easy, will you? You've only just managed to get out of the hospital. You're still weak."

I nodded. "Sorry. It's just… I've been stuck inside for so long it feels good to be—out. I guess I'm just happy."

"I'm glad." He smiled, and I noticed a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Just try not to kill yourself in the attempt to express your happiness, will you?"

I mirrored his smile. "I'll do my best."

As we drove off, I leaned my forehead against the cold glass of Carlisle's obscure-colored BMW. It felt odd to be out here, seven floors down from my hospital room in the middle of mid-day traffic, observing the pedestrians, the swarm of taxis and the seemingly incessant fall of rain that poured down on us. The windshield wipers worked rapidly. I rubbed my cast with my left hand. It was hard to tell whether I was elated to be out, nervous at the thought of possibly discovering my identity, or simply wanted to vomit my guts out. I felt air-headed and attempted to soothe the pressure of my headache by taking deep, deliberate breaths. I couldn't even remember the last time my brains were not in danger of being pounded out of my scalp. It ached constantly.

I lowered my eyes and absent-mindedly observed the dark blue carpet with a squared pattern.

"Nervous?" Carlisle glanced at me as we stopped in front of the red light.

"I can't decide whether I want to giggle or vomit."

"Try not to do the latter, it'll ruin the carpet."

It felt like such an _un-_Carlisle thing to say that I stopped my fidgeting to eye him, and noticed that he had a smile on his face.

"You're joking."

"Older people are known to do that sometimes, too. It's not copyright to the youngsters."

"I see Emmett hasn't popped out from under the cabbage leaves."

Carlisle let out a laugh, and the simple action made me feel immensely more at ease. Perhaps my parents turned out to be as cool as Carlisle? Maybe I had a few siblings and friends out there waiting for me to prove they needed more than a potential murder attempt to kill my spirits?

"I think this is the place where you tell me that this is all a joke, you're my real father and Emmett is my long-lost brother."

Instead of laughing with me, he pressed his lips together. "It wouldn't be the truth."

"Too bad. I've already made arrangements to adopt Emmett as my brother."

I got a smile out of him.

"Whoever you turn out to be, never lose that sense of humor."

Fifteen minutes later, we pulled up in front of a dirt-colored building that reminded me of a giant box with dark angular dots on it. After Carlisle locked the car, we made our way to the building. I took a breath.

"You okay?"

"Uh, yeah. I think so."

He stopped right in front of the stairs, and put a hand on my shoulder. "Just take it easy. Remember, it doesn't matter if nobody recognizes you. And don't beat yourself up for not recognizing anyone. Just be open-minded and follow the officers' instructions."

I nodded, pursing my lips in a smile; he had a knack for knowing what to say and when to say it.

"Thanks. I needed that."

It was surprisingly quiet inside, with the occasional clanking of heels and animated talking. We walked through a metal detector and got signs with the word 'visitor' on them before a curt lady instructed us to go to the fifth floor.

Officer Raymond Harper shook our hands before leading us to an office where an incredibly tall, bald man sat behind a table. His lips were pursed in a line, and he didn't look up until Officer Harper cleared his throat.

"Mr. Cullen and Miss Doe, this is Detective Eric Yorkie. He'll be working on your case." The Detective nodded at the Officer who left the room. Carlisle and I shook hands with the man before sitting in front of him. The walls were partly made of glass, so we could see the policemen taking calls and interacting. Occasionally, a few eyes would land on us, and I got the faint suspicion I was an object of discussion, but I don't think it really surprised me. They averted their eyes as soon as I'd made contact with them.

"That's quite an extraordinary situation you're in, Miss. Cannot say I've ever dealt with a case like yours."

I wasn't sure if I was supposed to comment, so I stayed silent.

"I know you already spoke to Officer Harper, and I got all the information you gave to him, but I still have a couple of questions. Is that okay?"

I nodded.

"First, since last Wednesday, have you had any progress in trying to remember anything?"

"Nothing, sir."

"Absolutely nothing? Not even your name?"

"That is correct."

"Alright. Since waking up from coma a couple of weeks ago, have you had any strange reactions to anything in your environment? Like unsubstantiated fear? Anger? In reaction to a person or a situation, anything. Any strange emotions."

"I think you should be promoted, sir," I replied. "Your questions are very apt."

He huffed a short, surprised chuckle. "I'll let my boss know. Now, do you recall any strange reactions that have taken you by surprise?"

He might've seemed young, maybe in his early thirties, but he seemed to know what he's doing. To top that, he didn't seem to think I was creating a hoax. It was encouraging.

"Not that I recall," I replied. "But I have a constant headache that intensifies when I do try to recall anything."

"Even now?"

"Yes, sir."

The entire time, he kept writing something down, and briefly looked up at us. "Thank you, Miss."

I offered him a nod.

"Now, Dr. Cullen, can you describe how you and your son came to find this young lady?"

He did, and it sounded quite different from how I remembered it. He's detailed, and I found out I was found from Massachusetts not New York—sort of logical when to think of it, but I _hadn't_ thought of it—and I'd spent a week at Addison Gilbert Hospital.

"We've contacted the CPD as well as Gloucester Police Department, and received missing person reports from them. Why did you take her from Addison Gilbert Hospital to Bellevue? It's about a five hour drive, if I remember correctly."

"I'm paying for her health insurance. Since I am a doctor living in NYC and not Massachusetts, it seemed reasonable. She'd been in a stable coma for a week before I decided to move her."

"Do either of you have any speculations about how you came to receive your wounds? Would you mind if a few fellow investigators took a look at them?"

I nodded, and we talked about our own guesses as to how I could've been abused in such a way as two other detectives stayed in the room with us. The amount of people involved with my case took me by surprise, but really, what was I expecting?

"For your own safety, we strongly discourage you from involving the media. If our speculations are correct and you were harmed intentionally, then with current information, it is impossible to ensure that they wouldn't come after you if you revealed your whereabouts."

I nodded.

"We'll also need a sample of your blood for DNA matches. We'll compare it with every available sample in Massachusetts as well as NYC to increase the likelihood that we find your family. Do you agree to that?"

"Of course, sir."

"Thank you for being so consenting, Miss," he says, taking out a business card. "Please notify us immediately if you remember anything at all. Even if you think you remember the color of your mom's hair."

"Thank you, sir. I will."

"Could you keep us updated as well, Detective?" Carlisle asked.

"That goes without saying," he replies, standing. So did we. I was surprised I wasn't going to meet any people who thought I could be their lost family member.

"I have one more question," Carlisle said. "Hypothetically, if I were to invite her to live with my family until we find hers, would I have the legal right to do so?"

Detective Yorkie hesitated.

"I'm unsure as to how the legal procedure works in this case. I would assume she's currently owned by the government, so to speak, so someone in charge of the jurisdictional part might be able to provide a better answer." He locks eyes with me and smiles, if slightly. "Personally, I don't see a problem with providing her with a family, even a temporary one. You might have to bite through some red tape, but I'm sure it's possible."

"So after bribing a social worker I should be okay?"

The Detective chuckled.

"Sir?" I asked, a little more timidly than I meant to.

"Yes, Miss?"

"I just wanted to ask—I thought I had to see multiple people who thought I could be their long lost loved one. Did I misunderstand or did you change your plans?"

"Most of them were from Massachusetts. It would've been too difficult to arrange a meeting for you all at such short notice. We might arrange something in the future, but your safety is currently our top priority."

"Thank you, Sir."

We took the elevator back downstairs. My headache intensified, and when I saw the beige and glossy marble floor blur, I stopped. I got dizzy. Voices faded in the background, and I felt more than heard my heartbeat in my ears. I felt eerie. Was anyone watching me, right at this moment? I felt like it.

"_Trust him." _

A man's voice, quite scratchy, echoed in my ears. It came from inside the foyer and so I twirled, desperate to find anyone's eyes on me, but nobody seemed suspicious.

"_Go with the doctor." _

I tried to stop hyperventilating, but I couldn't.

"Are you alright?" Carlisle stopped walking. "What's wrong? What're you looking for?"

The echo in my ears continued, but I could no longer decipher the words. "Did you—can you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"There's like a man…" I trailed off, suddenly embarrassed. Someone, a man, had clearly just told me to trust Carlisle. How? Was it from my past? If yes, how could two random sentences from the past fit so well into this situation? If not, how come anyone else couldn't hear him?

"You're burning up," Carlisle said after touching my forehead. "Let's get you back to the hospital."

I took my coat, still searching through the crowd. Who wanted me to trust Carlisle and why?

"I think I may—I might have some psychological issues," I said quietly as we drove back to the hospital. It kept raining. My headache showed no signs of weakening, but the dizziness from earlier had ceased.

"Given the extent of your injuries, I wouldn't be surprised," he said. "What did you hear earlier?"

"I heard—a man. Like a man's voice. Telling me to trust you."

"What exactly did he say?"

"'Trust him,' and then, 'go with the doctor.' I swear, it didn't come from inside my head. It didn't. It came from inside the foyer."

We stopped in front of a red light, and for a moment, Carlisle just observed me as I stared at him, drowning in his son's jacket.

"You don't believe me."

But I couldn't blame him. I had no evidence to the contrary.

"I haven't made up my mind," he replied, and we both knew he might've as well agreed with my statement. "Perhaps we should let you talk to a psychologist."

"Yeah, that will work out perfectly. 'Miss Jane Doe, tell me about your life, what concerns and scares and traumatizes you? Just lay it all out there, everything about your life, just pour your heart out.'"

He chuckled. "I see your point."

"Voices no-one else can hear is never a good sign, is it?"

"Normally, yes. In your case, who knows? It might be progress."

A week later, I was dismissed from the hospital. Not once after the incident in NYPD Headquarters had I heard any unexplained voices inside or outside of my head, which relieved me in a way. But as I recalled the sound of the man over and over again, the scratchy, somewhat husky voice, it became clearer that the voice amplified my headache. And thus, most probably, it was a voice of a person once close to me. Perhaps a family member. Carlisle and I both agreed that maybe my subconscious transferred the voice from my "previous life" to this situation, where I felt I needed an assurance that I was doing the right thing by trusting him and his family.

It was so incredibly kind of him to offer me a home to stay in, and I did not know how, but he pulled it off, too. He spoke to social workers and detectives and officers. He made them see how doing this would benefit my situation more than landing in a homeless shelter, and so, on the 6th of March, I was rolled to the foyer of the hospital—even though I was perfectly capable of walking.

Emmett huffed at the sight of me.

"I bet Jason Bourne was never rolled out of the hospital in a wheelchair."

"Bite me."


End file.
